


Folkvang

by YoungestThunderbird



Series: Arcadia [8]
Category: Star Wars - All Media Types, Star Wars Prequel Trilogy, Star Wars: The Clone Wars (2008) - All Media Types
Genre: Attempting to put science in sci-fi, Boba is secretly a nerd pass it on, Colt is Big Brother Energy, Fluff, Found Family, Gen, Give Shaak Patience, Han is very unsecretly obsessed with flying pass it on, enemies to friends to adopted brothers, little angst
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-10-19
Updated: 2020-10-19
Packaged: 2021-03-09 00:35:51
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 11,961
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/27095917
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/YoungestThunderbird/pseuds/YoungestThunderbird
Summary: A cure for the Clones' accelerated aging has been developed. Unfortunately, it depends on the one person who would be happy to never see a Clone again. Colt and Shaak Ti are dispatched to persuade him, and end up picking up a stray.
Relationships: Boba Fett & Colt, Boba Fett & Han Solo, Boba Fett & Shaak Ti, Colt & Shaak Ti, Han Solo & Colt, Han Solo & Shaak Ti
Series: Arcadia [8]
Series URL: https://archiveofourown.org/series/1939405
Comments: 17
Kudos: 343





	Folkvang

**Author's Note:**

> The Fluff Parade continues! These things are getting longer and longer the more I write them.  
> Your comments, as always, are appreciated. I particularly enjoy when you guys tell me your favorite lines, or your favorite concepts.  
> The title of this fic comes from Norse Mythology. Folkvang, or Field of the People, was Freya's domain, and as she was the beautiful, kind goddess of fertility, her domain probably reflects it.

Shaak Ti always enjoyed watching the wind roll through the grass. The grass kept rustling even after the gust of wind had passed, thought that probably was the result of the Clone Cadets practicing stealth maneuvers. Every once in a while, she could see small curly heads poke up from the waving stalks. 

She hid a smile at the incredibly endearing sight, though Colt, who was standing next to her, made a point of signaling to each Cadet that he saw. 

“It’s combat training,” he explained to her, giving a signal to a small cadet, “And if they learn it well now, it’ll keep them alive later. Letting them think they’re better than they are serves no purpose.”

The Clones were still hashing our education for their younger ranks. Flash-training was definitely out the window. They’d eventually gone to the Crèchemasters for help, and the result was a mixed curriculum. The Clone children learned most of the things Jedi Younglings did, but where Jedi had classes on the lightsaber and use of the Force, Clones had combat training heavily disguised as games. There were hide-and-seek games for the little ones, marksmanship tournaments, and unarmed combat championships. The Alphas delighted in setting up elaborate obstacle courses and intricate games to teach different types of combat, from urban terrain to jungle ambush. 

The Jedi had added classes to their roster as well; Commander training, which Jedi Padawans and Clone Cadets both took together, armor maintenance, likewise mixed, and unarmed combat with Clone instructors. 

The Jedi had been concerned, at first, that the Clones were preparing their children for war. Shaak smiled as she recalled what Colt had told her. 

“It’s not that we want the kids to go to war, buir,” he’d said, “In fact, we’d rather them never see war in their lives. But we simply don’t have enough people to supervise all the kids one-on-one, so we need to keep them busy, or they’ll get in trouble. Take it from a former Clone Cadet, they always have trouble on their minds somehow. They’re as bad as Padawans.”

He had been proven right within five minutes, when they had to untangle Clone Cadet Fritz and Padawan Kestis from the yarn for the industrial looms that supplied clothes and blankets for Clone and Jedi alike. Master Tapal and the Commander were not best pleased. 

She suppressed a smile at the memory. 

She and Colt were walking through the grasslands to the Starbird, headed to the biology labs that had been set up there. The Jedi Healers and Clone Medics had joined forces to create a terrifyingly efficient treatment system, in which Medics treated minor injuries and Healers treated major ones. The system was so efficient, partially because no one wanted to face the wrath of Medics and Healers at the same time, that they were able to devote half the Healers and several Medics to curing the accelerated growth of the Clones. 

Shaak and Colt had been put in charge of oversight for the project by the Council, due to their deployment on Kamino. They were the most qualified of the Councilmembers and Commanders to understand the scientific terminology used, due to working so closely with the Kaminoan labs. 

They were met at the door to the facility by Healer Omida, an excitable Weequay woman who specialized in genetic tampering. She had been trained to be part of a small subset of Jedi Healers; the Genetic Department, or Genet, whose purpose was finding cures to genetic diseases like Cystic Fibrosis, hereditary cancer, or Tholian Drgu. She, as well as a large portion of Genet, had been working to cure the accelerated aging of the Clones since the beginning of the war. However, there was finally a breakthrough. 

Omida chattered excitedly as she let them to the meeting room. She loved her work, and loved that she was working to help people. 

“The difficult thing about the Clone’s accelerated growth is that it’s not just one gene. The Kaminoans used protein turnover (1) to trick the biological clock in the Clones to tick twice as fast. They modified Jango Fett’s longevity pathways to promote faster protein turnover, and in turn faster growth,” she said, once they had gotten into the meeting room and sat down. 

“And it can be fixed?” Shaak asked. Healer Omida was much too excited to be giving bad news. 

“Well, we have gene-splicers here, to treat 65-roses (2) and other genetic diseases in Jedi Younglings. We’ve identified the genes that control longevity pathways in Clones, and we could splice unaltered genes to replace the modified ones. All we need is the source genetic material that you were cloned from!,” Omida said. 

“There is no such material,” Colt said, and Omida’s face dropped. 

“They ran out two batches ago. The youngest Tubies are actually clones of Alpha-67, because he’s the unlucky one who tested as closest to Prime genetically (3),” her son finished grimly. 

Colt sighed. Shaak put her hand on his arm, to try to comfort him a bit. 

“Is there any way to get his genetic material?” Omida questioned hopefully. 

Colt dragged his hand across his face. 

“Felt died on Geonosis, at the beginning of the war. For all I know, his corpse is still there somewhere, but it’s probably not a viable source anymore.”

Omida’s expression was starting to lose hope. 

Colt blinked. 

“Boba. I can’t believe I forgot about Boba,” he said. 

Omida’s expression perked up again. 

“Boba is an unaltered Clone, Jango’s son. He would have the correct genes, right?” Colt said hopefully. 

Omida nodded, “It should work. I’d need a sample of his DNA to find out for sure, though.”

Colt’s face fell again. Shaak moved her hand from his arm to over his shoulders. 

“That’s the hard part,” he sighed, “Last any of us heard of Boba, he would quite happily shoot us rather than talk to us ever again.”

...

Colt didn’t know how to feel. Boba wasn’t his brother, not really. The kid didn’t want to be, had rejected all attempts to take him in, had attempted to shoot Ponds in the head. He didn’t want them, he wasn’t their brother. Simple as that. 

But part of Colt couldn’t help but remember the lonely little boy who had always looked so envious when he saw entire squads walking together. Who only really smiled when Jango came back from his long missions, but was so alone during them, with no one but a nursery droid to keep him company. Sometimes he would pass Colt’s group on the way to the library, engrossed in a holobook, and looking almost like he was solitary by choice. He’d learned, as he got older, to control his envious looks. 

Buir walked next to him, and kept her hand on his arm. 

“I don’t know what to do, Buir,” he told her, “Boba will never help us, he hates us, Jedi and Clone both.”

“Boba considers himself a bounty hunter, correct?” Buir murmured. 

“Yes, he hero-worshipped Jango, and I don’t think he knows how to do anything else,” Colt replied. 

“Well then, we will offer him a contract,” Buir replied, in that unperturbed way of hers. 

“What will we use to pay him?” Colt said despairingly. 

“There are numerous objects of cultural significance in the Archives,” Buir said calmly. 

“Items of... there are art pieces in the Archives?” Colt questions. 

“Yes. Some made of materials whose rarity or properties make them desirable, and some desirable simply because of their provenance,” Buir replied. 

“We can’t ask the Jedi to sell their art,” Colt objected. 

“The Jedi must take care of their own, for if they cannot take care of their own, how can they take care of anything else?” Buir questioned him philosophically. Oh, she was in a mood today. Big words, and then deep questions; next it’d be moral conundrums. 

“Alright, Buir, so we sell the art, get money for it, and go hire Boba? What if he refuses to speak with us? How to we convince him to?”

“It is unethical to force anyone to do anything; is it more unethical to allow thousands to die sooner than is their time?” Buir questioned. 

And there was the moral conundrum. He was right, she was in a mood. But, well, she was right, in a way. He’d do anything to save his brothers. 

“Alright,” he sighed, “Where do we start?”

It turned out that starting was the least of their worries. The Jedi Council was not impressed with the necessity of finding and obtaining the services of Boba Fett. Ponds glared at Colt for a solid week for daring to suggest that they contract the services of an individual known to want to kill Pond’s Jedi. However, after extensive discussion with Healer Omida and the rest of Genet, it was decided that finding Boba Fett was probably the only way. 

Colt knew Ponds would never forgive him. 

That’s how he and his Buir ended up standing in front of a seedy cantina on the back end of Corellia. Quinlan Vos really knew more about the galactic underworld than was probably good for him, or for Fox’s blood pressure. 

“I have a bad feeling about this,” his Buir smirks, teasingly. 

“Don’t say that,” Colt deadpanned back. This did not need to be a Skywalker-Kenobi mission. 

They entered the cantina quietly. Colt couldn’t shake the feeling that he was naked; he couldn’t turn up in his standard-issue CC armor, for obvious reasons. The Coruscant Guard had kitted him up in some of their undercover gear, a battered chestplate of indeterminate origin, a helmet that covered his face, and gauntlet, greaves, and bracers that were nowhere near as good as his real gear. Then again, his Buir stood next to him looking very un-Jedi-like in traditional Togrutan garb and a long cloak. 

Fett was fairly easy to pick out, if you knew what a Clone looked like. He looked tougher than a Cadet of his size, angrier and sadder, though he disguised the sadness with disgust. 

He also recognized Colt’s Buir when they sat down across from him. 

“What do you want?” He hissed viciously, leveling a blaster at them under the table. Colt shut down the urge to disarm him and grind the little snot’s face into the floor. 

“I would like to hire you, for a job,” Buir replied serenely. 

“What kind of job do the Jedi want me to do? Don’t they have their loyal little lapdogs to do anything they want for them?” Boba sneered. 

The urge to bash the little mir’sheb’s (4) face into the floor was growing stronger, despite Colt’s best efforts. 

“There is a health concern, for our men. And they are our men; they can leave at anytime if they wish to, Boba, but almost none have chosen to yet,” Buir replied. 

“So you want me because I’m expendable,” Boba retorted nastily. Colt blinked. Underneath that nastiness was a great deal of hurt. What had Boba been getting into, while he was alone?

“No,” Buir retorted calmly, “You are the ideal candidate because you are the only one your father did not regard as expendable.”

Colt grimaced under his helmet. Jango Fett was a man who inspired much contention among the ranks of the GAR, as everyone had a different opinion on him. Grey, for example, didn’t regard him as anything but a shebs (5) that he shared an unfortunate resemblance to. Wolffe strove to practice some of the Mandalorian culture that Fett had taught them, though out of respect for Prime or out of a desire to adopt people it was hard to tell. 

Some of the early mutants, like Rex, were at least somewhat grateful for the man. He’d helped the blondes, brunettes, and occasional redhead dye their hair black, early on, so they were judged by their achievements and not their deviations from the Kaminoans’ standard of perfection. He’d even worked to make sure Clones with eye color variations, like Cody, and other purely cosmetic deviations were also judged by their performance alone. 

But he’d still stood by while their Alphas were forced to hurt them, and he’d stood by while Clones, little boys who were not strong enough or fast enough or smart enough, were decommissioned. Colt would never forgive him for that. 

But Boba, well, Boba loved Jango. Of course he did, Jango was his dad. Colt loved his Buir and his Alpha, after all. So, maybe, they could play that angle. 

“Yeah, my dad loved me. He’s dead now, what does that have to do with anything?” Boba asked callously. Colt only saw his flinch because of his time stationed at Kamino with Clone Cadets who were punished for showing fear. 

“You are the only known unaltered Clone. You alone grow at an ordinary speed. The Jedi wish to ensure long lives to their compatriots, and have researched a way to slow the accelerated aging process in all other Clones. The cure requires unaltered genes to replaced the ones responsible for the accelerated aging,” Buir replied. 

“You want me to give you my genetic code. Oh, that’s rich!” Boba laughed without any amusement whatsoever, “Remember what happened last time a Jedi asked a Fett for their genes?”

Colt flinched. Buir simply looked calm. 

“Dooku was a rogue Jedi turned Sith, operating without the knowledge or consent of the Jedi Council. I am here as a representative of the Council,” she replied. 

“And why should I help the Jedi?” Boba snarled, “I might just end up without a head too.”

Colt cut in. 

“Jango Fett died in combat, in war. He had already killed Jedi Master Coleman Trevor in that battle, and had a reputation of being highly dangerous to Jedi even before that. Mace Windu was perfectly justified to defend himself and his fellow Jedi Masters from such a known threat,” he said calmly, “Unless you try to shoot any Jedi, you should be safe.”

“And, to dissuade you from shooting Jedi further, we are willing to compensate you handsomely for your services,” Buir reached into her pouch and pulled out a small figurine. The art was crude; Colt still wasn’t sure if the being depicted was Human or Nautolan, but the material was pure Cortosis. That figurine was worth a small yacht. 

Boba carefully did not allow his eyes to widen, but he did handle the figurine gingerly when he inspected it. 

“This is not enough for access to my genetic code,” he said after an examination. 

“This is simply your pay for coming with us to our laboratory and testing if your genes will work with the cure. If they are, then we are prepared to offer you as much as thirty times that amount over the course of one year,” Buir returned. 

Boba blinked. As well he should, it was an exorbitant sum for a simple test, and even more so for even long-term access to his genetic code. The Council desperately wanted Boba to come peacefully. 

“Alright then. I go with you to your secure location, and test my DNA. Then we discuss my contract,” Boba said, and pocketed the figurine. 

“Do you have a ship?” Colt asked. 

“Not right now, it’s in the shop,” Boba was trying extra hard to be nonchalant for this one. 

Their deal was broken by a shout.

“There’s the little karker!” Screamed an irate Twi’lek. The man marched up to Boba and took him by the collar. 

“Where’s my ship, you little kriffer?!” The unknown Twi’lek screamed into Boba’s face. 

“It’s my ship!” Boba glared right back, but his hands were trembling slightly, invisible to anyone who had never been to the training camps at Kamino. The Twi’lek lifted his other hand, and Boba visibly braced to be hit. 

Both Boba and the Twi’lek were surprised when Colt grabbed the man’s fist. 

“You don’t hit kids. No matter how karking annoying they are,” Colt barked. 

“What’s it to you, huh? He owes me a ship, I won it in a game of sabaac!” The Twi’lek put forward aggressively. 

“That’s not true! You cheated, I proved it!” Boba yelled. 

“Is this true?” Colt asked the other man. 

“So what if it is!” Exclaimed the Twi’lek, angrily. Colt could feel his grip tightening unconsciously, but couldn’t bring himself to care. 

...

Shaak looked on as Colt gave a quick, efficient, yet painful beat down to the Twi’lek who had threatened Boba. 

“You don’t hurt kids,” came Colt’s voice again, heavily modulated by the helmet, as he stood over the unconscious Twi’lek. He turned back to Shaak, and looked at her and Boba expectantly. 

Boba was unsettled by Colt, she could tell. He wasn’t used to people defending him for no reason. 

“We need to get back to the ship,” Colt prompted, when neither she nor Boba moved. 

“Hold your anoobas, Colt, we’re coming,” she said amusedly. 

By the time they got back to the ship it was night, and they had another problem. It had been stripped, down to the airframe, by industrious street urchins, one of which was cranking away with a hydrospanner at the left airfoils. 

Colt grabbed him by the arm before the child could run. 

“Hey!” The kid objected, trying to run off. Boba sniggered at him. 

“What’s your name, kid?” Colt sighed. 

“Han!” The child said, chin up. 

“Any last name? Parents?” Colt prodded further. 

“Yeah, I’m the son of the last King of Corellia!” The child, Han apparently, said sarcastically. 

“Shut up. You got caught, deal with it. Give him the name of someone who’ll claim you and turn you loose after, and then we can get back to our business,” Boba cut in. 

Colt tensed. The idea of giving the child to someone who wouldn’t take care of him clearly rankled. 

“And if we give you to CorSec?” Shaak cut in. 

Both Boba and Han turned wide eyes toward her. 

“Ah, geez, you wanna kill me, lady?” Han cried. He redoubled his struggling. 

Boba’s reaction was more subdued. 

“Oh, of you do, he’ll either be out within the day or dead within the week. CorSec doesn’t believe in juvenile detention; they put the street kids in with the murderers and thieves and other scum of the galaxy,” he said acerbically. Shaak noticed him rubbing a spot on his side and started to develop suspicions about how he knew that. 

Colt looked at her, and tilted his head. He didn’t want to just leave the kid on the street. 

“We’ll take you with us,” she decided, and turned to Boba. 

“Where can you contract a reputable ship in this area?” She questioned. 

Both Han and Boba burst out laughing. 

“Reputable?” Boba chortled. 

“This area?” Han added, “Where are you from, Lady?”

Honestly. 

“The Jedi Temple,” Shaak deadpanned. 

Han’s eyes grew to the size of dinner plates. 

“You’re a Jedi?” Han asked, amazedly. 

Shaak secretively moved her robe aside to reveal her lightsaber, and then picked up a nearby rock without touching it. 

“And you’re taking me with you? Away from here?” Han asked, again. He stopped struggling against Colt. 

“What kind of transportation is available?” Shaak rephrased. 

“Smugglers, mostly. Won’t ask questions, but corrupt as the Seven Hels. And some syndicate cruisers, but you don’t want to ride on those, you’ll never be seen again,” Han supplied helpfully. 

“There’s my ship,” Boba said abruptly. 

Han turned wide eyes to him. 

“You have a ship? Wizard!” He breathed. A flyboy in the making, that one. 

“I thought your ship was in the shop,” Colt said. 

“Yeah. It’s just that it’s a chop shop,” Boba murmured, arms twitching as if to hug himself but aborting the movement long before it would register to anyone who hadn’t spent three years watching Cadets make that same gesture on Kamino. 

“Got on the wrong side of Old Lady Tipa?” Han asked sympathetically. 

“Boss Dras, actually,” Boba muttered. 

Han whistled. 

“Hey, you’re still alive. That means you’re real good,” he comforted Boba. Well, Shaak thought it might have been meant to be comfort. 

“I’m the best,” Boba snarled back. 

Colt broke up the impending fight with the ease of years of practice. 

“Where’s this chop shop?” He asked, businesslike, as he stepped between the two boys. 

“What can you do about it? Who are you, anyway?” Han asked. 

“Colton Seeci, call me Colt. The chop shop?” Colt asked. 

Shaak had offered her last name to Colt, but he had politely declined. A Togruta last name stood out on a human. He’d called himself Seeci, like Grey had, and modified his given name somewhat to resist outside scrutiny. 

Colt had been overjoyed when the adoption certificate she filed to adopt him had gone through. 

“It’s about five kliks from here,” Boba said, “That way.”

He pointed down a narrow alley. Colt started walking down it, pulling Han with him. 

“Hey, hey! What are you taking me with you for? I’m not a bounty hunter or hit man, I can’t help you storm a chop shop!” Han objected, pulling at his arm, “I’m too young to die!”

“And what does that make me?” Boba snarked. 

“A kriffing idiot!” Han snapped back. 

Boba lunged for Han. Colt jerked Han out of the way, caught Boba in his other hand, and forcibly separated the two. 

“Anyone under this tall,” he pinned down Han’s foot with his own, drew a line about two inches above Han and Boba’s heads with the Han hand and quickly grabbed on again, “Shuts up until we get where we’re going, or I start pinching earlobes,” he threatened. 

Both boys settled down after that. After they got about halfway to their destination, Colt even felt comfortable enough to let them go, even if he walked between them to prevent any silent punches and pokes. 

Shaak heard their stomachs rumbling, but Colt forestalled any action on her part. He took a ration bar out of the pouch on his belt, split it in half, and gave half to each boy. It should be enough for now; best not to eat too much before an operation, it slows one down. 

Boba gave him a suspicious look. 

“We need you alive, kid, remember?” He asked, and then turned to Han, who was also giving a suspicious look, “And it’s awfully hard to only poison half a ration bar.”

They shrugged and began to eat. It was blessedly quiet. 

...

Colt was getting tired of playing referee. First his brothers, then these two teenage idiots. Luckily, they were quiet for the rest of the walk. 

The chop shop, when they got to it, was a disreputable warehouse that spanned about half a kilometer long and perhaps the same distance in depth. 

“Okay, kid, do you have any idea exactly where in this facility your ship is? And if it’s flyable?” Colt asked. Boba nodded, and led them to a yard around the back. 

The Slave I was parked in the middle of the yard, an unmistakeable hulk among the small freighters and occasional speeder that the rest of the lot contained. 

“Of course it’s in the middle,” Colt sighed. 

“What’s you do to skive Boss Dras off?” Han whispered to Boba. 

“I didn’t take a bounty he wanted me to,” Boba hissed back. 

Colt put his hands on the back of both of their necks, thumb on one side of the neck, fingers on the other side, squeezing gently, to prevent further fights. They settled down quickly. Good to know it worked on natborns, or, well, a natborn and a Clone raised like a natborn, as well as Cadets. 

“Where are we going?” Han asked, after a while, “You know, when we get the ship.”

“Dantooine,” Buir told him gently, ignoring Boba’s surprised look. 

“What’s on Dantooine?” Han asked. 

“Our family,” Shaak replied simply. 

Han’s eyes grew large again, but there was longing in them this time. 

“He’s a Jedi too?” Boba asked, looking at Colt. Colt shook his head. 

“No, I just keep her out of trouble,” he said lightly. Shaak shook her head, exasperated. 

“You’re just a regular guy?” Han asked, in utter disbelief. 

“Can a regular guy do this?” Colt asked, and then cracked every finger on both his hands, his shoulders, his spine, and his ankles in quick succession. It worked on the Tubies, it should work on older kids too, right? Boba and Han watched in horrified, fascinated disbelief. 

“I can do my toes, too,” Colt informed them. 

“I’ll pass,” Han replied promptly. 

“I’m with him,” Boba agreed. 

Buir hid a smile behind her hand, but beckoned them to return their attention to the shipyard. 

“The yard is open-air, with no shields. The guards come through every fifteen minutes. Do they disable the ships?” She asked quietly. 

“Yeah, they disable the hyperdrive, but anyone competent with mechanics can fix it in three minutes, and they put a boot on one of the engines. It’s the starboard engine on the Slave. The security here isn’t too tight, they aren’t used to processing anything other than speeders and the occasional smuggler’s freighter,” Boba replied. 

“Their mistake,” Colt grinned. 

“I can disable the perimeter alarms,” Han offered thoughtfully. 

“Thanks, kid,” Colt absentmindedly ruffled his hair, like he would with a Cadet. Han made a small ‘eep’ noise. Colt abruptly realized that Han was not a Cadet. 

“Sorry!” He snatched his hand away. 

“You messed up my hair,” Han said faintly accusingly. 

“It was already pretty messy,” countered Boba, probably looking for a fight again. 

Colt sighed, and put his hands across the back of their necks again. 

“Han, you disable the perimeter alarms, like you said. Then, we climb the fence, and wait for the guard to pass us. Boba, can you still get into the ship?” Buir started to plan out loud. 

Boba nodded. 

“Boba gets us into the ship while I disable the boot on the engine. I enter, we lift off, and we’re gone before they know we were there,” Buir finished. 

It seemed like a good plan to Colt. 

It even worked well, up until the point when Boba punched in the code to enter his ship, the ship unlocked, and the light from the interior spilled across the yard. The guards immediately took notice, and shot at the figures suddenly silhouetted by the internal lights of the ship. 

Colt shoved Han in, then turned and registered that one guard had his blaster pointed directly at Boba. He stepped between them, facing the guard to return fire, and shoved Boba in too without looking, barely registering the pain in his shoulder where the ill-fitting borrowed armor didn’t quite cover. 

Buir shot past him, dragging him up the ramp with her as it closed. 

Boba was already in the pilot seat, and called for them to brace for takeoff. What he neglected to mention was that takeoff in a Firespray class vessel involved the entire vessel tilting forward 90 degrees at speed. 

Colt found himself catapulting toward the wall. He held out his hands to catch himself, only to feel a ripping sensation in his right shoulder and the failing of that arm. His head hit he bulkhead, followed by the rest of his body, and the world went dark. 

...

Shaak turned from catching Han, who had just finished fixing the hyperdrive, out of the air. She heard the thunk as her son hit the wall, but a worrying stillness after. 

She found Colt in a heap on the floor, just in front of their bulkhead. 

“Colt?” She asked, as she felt the ship go to hyperspace, “Colt, please answer me.”

She put her hand lightly on his back, and called the limited Force Healing she knew. No spine injuries. No broken ribs. 

She turned him over, just as Boba made his way back from the cockpit, and Han stuck his head out of the engine compartment. Both grew distressed when they saw Colt on the floor, and her administering first aid. 

“Colt?” Boba asked, in an inflection that would have sounded emotionless to someone who hadn’t met a scared Kaminoan Cadet. 

“Get the first aid kid, Boba,” she told him quietly. 

She laid her son out straight, and started taking off his armor on the chest and shoulders. There was a dark spot in his shirt, up on his shoulder. Boba had arrived with the first aid kit. She carefully cut the shirt away, cleaned the wound, and applied a bacta bandage, and immobilized the arm by wrapping it to his body. She carefully checked his arm, and upper chest for more wounds, but came up empty. 

Both Boba and Han were camped out less than six inches away, the flickering beginnings of hero-worship in their eyes, towards herself, but mostly towards Colt. 

“Ner ad (5), wake up anytime you wish, my dear,” she murmured gently, cupping the back of his neck. 

“He’s your son?” Boba had sharp ears and a working understanding of Mandalorian, apparently. 

“Yes, I adopted him. We will, of course, reimburse you for all medical supplies used for his treatment,” Shaak replied, taking off her child’s helmet. 

She didn’t understand, at first, why Boba flinched back. Why he immediately withdrew his hand from where it was almost next to Colt’s. Han gave him an odd look as well. 

“He’s a Clone!” Boba yelped, accusingly. 

“Yes,” Shaak nodded as she gently checked her son’s head for injury. 

“He can’t be your son, he isn’t a person!” Boba exclaimed, sounding upset. 

“You just spent the better part of the day with Colt. Can you really say he isn’t a person?” Shaak arched her brow at him. 

“Seems pretty personable to me,” Han cut in. 

“But Clones aren’t people! They just pretend so the instructors will treat them nicer!” Boba insisted. 

Shaak finished her ministrations, put her son’s head on her lap, and started stroking his hair. Colt never asked for affection of any kind, but she had learned that his favorite form was her brushing or stroking his hair. She, herself, grew to like brushing out her son’s hair; it was a novelty to a hairless species such as the Togruta. 

“Who told you that?” She said lowly, reassuring herself that her child was alright. She looked up to see a study in contrasts; Han was looking at herself and Colt like he would do anything for a place with them, while Boba couldn’t get far enough away, and was glaring hatefully. 

“My dad!” Boba spat. 

“And who told him that?” Shaak asked gently. Colt was starting to come around, so she kept running her fingers through his hair. 

“The Kaminoans,” Boba replied. 

“The same Kaminoans who were obsessed with creating the perfect soldier, the same scientists who trained the children not to show emotion in the first place?” She replied. 

Shaak forced herself not to get angry. Anger led to the dark side. Instead, she concentrated on how much she loved her son, and all her sons back home, from the Tubies to the men of the Kamino Garrison. 

Boba opened and closed his mouth. 

“They have chips in their heads!” He spat, “They’re no better than droids!”

“Na’ ‘ny m’re,” came the moan from Colt. 

“Colt!” Han cried, taking the man’s hand. Shaak laid her hand on Colt’s forehead. 

“‘Ey kid,” Colt muttered, squeezing his hand gently. His eyes turned to Boba. 

“We don’ have chips ‘ny more,” He enunciated more clearly, “‘M not a droid.”

“You... took the chips out? You shouldn’t be able to function without them!” Boba was shocked and dismayed. 

“I get by,” Colt snarked. 

Boba looked like his world was falling in. He got up and almost ran to the cockpit, slamming the door behind him. 

...

Boba locked the cockpit door, and sat on the pilot seat. It was still too big. He wrapped his arms around himself, like he’d been wanting to do for the last hour, curled up into a ball and put his head on his knees. 

He’d liked Colt. He really had. The man had been gruff but willing to defend him, even when he’d been nothing but rude to him and his mother. He’d picked up another orphan kid, because he had no place to go either, but made sure Boba and Han didn’t fight too much. 

He’d touched Boba gently. It’d been so long since someone touched Boba without wanting to hurt or restrain him. Colt had touched him to calm him down. 

And he’d helped to get Dad’s ship back. The Slave and the items in it were the last things Boba had of his Dad, and Colt had gotten it back for free. 

Kriffing Hels, he’d taken a blaster bolt for Boba. He was a do-gooder, but Boba had been sure he cared, at least a little. 

And then it all came crashing down when the Jedi had pulled his helmet off. Boba, for a split second, that thought that the Clone was his dad, but then he registered that the Clone was only twenty-five or so, as opposed to over thirty. The laugh lines were all wrong. 

And then, in a horrible moment, he’d realized. It was all fake. It was an act. The Clones were good actors. They had to be, to get the Jedi to love them. But it was fake; they were like droids, they had a chip to do their thinking for them. 

Even if Colt insisted it wasn’t, it was an act. The Clones weren’t people. They couldn’t love, they couldn’t care for Boba. That’s what the Kaminoans and the Cuy’Val Dar (6) and Dad all said. 

Even if he walked past them in the halls and they walked closer to each other than formation allowed, or if he came around a corner and saw them holding hands where they thought he couldn’t see. It couldn’t be real, because if it was, Boba’s Dad... Dad would be a monster, if he treated kids who could feel like that. 

He grabbed Dad’s helmet from the console, and pressed it to his forehead. He missed his Dad, achingly. 

If there was wetness on his face, he didn’t acknowledge it. He just kept his forehead and his Dad’s helmet pressed together for a long time. 

There was a knock at the door. 

“Can I see our course?” Colt asked, on the other side. 

Boba put the helmet back, and buried his face in his hands. 

“Really, kid, I need to see where we’re going if we don’t want to get apprehended by the orbital defenses. Fox would be insufferable,” Colt called. 

Boba didn’t move, still. 

“Kid, are you okay in there?” Colt’s voice turned worried, “Answer me!”

Boba just shook his head. 

“Buir, please help,” he heard Colt say, and the lock on the door clicked open. 

“Boba, are you alright?” He registered Colt ask, as he stepped into the cockpit. Boba didn’t answer; it’s not like Colt could care. The next thing he knew, Colt had his hand on the back of his neck, again, but his index finger was checking Boba’s pulse. 

“Don’t touch me,” he said, wetter than he would like. 

“Just making sure you’re not in shock,” Colt returned. 

“Takes more than that to get me to go into shock,” Boba muttered. 

He clenched his fists as Colt invited himself into the co-pilot seat to check their navigation information. That was his place, when he piloted with Dad. 

Colt checked the navigation information, adjusted the course a bit, and nodded. 

“Can you broadcast this code?” He gave a string of symbols to Boba, to punch into the transponder. 

“What’s it for?” Boba couldn’t help but ask. 

“It’ll let the orbital fleet know we’re a friendly. We’ve had some pirate trouble recently,” Colt mentioned. 

They dropped out of hyperspace soon after that, and Boba’s eyes widened when he saw the hundreds of dreadnaugts orbiting the planet. 

“What do you have down there, is the planet made of cortosis or something?” Boba blurted. 

“Something even more precious than that,” Colt said with a smile. He directed Boba to land next to one of the massive Venator dotting the grasslands below. 

Boba called the landing; this time both his passengers knew to anticipate the ship rotating, and there were no thunks or thuds signifying people hitting the wall. He hit the ramp release button, and almost didn’t register that Colt was already up and out of the cockpit. 

By the time he made it to the ramp, he started to hear voices. Lots and lots of voices. Kid’s voices, which surprise him. He was half-expecting an ambush at this point; why else would Colt go out of his way to make Boba think he cared, if not to lure him into a trap?

The voices were speaking around and on top of each other, clamoring for attention. He walked down the ramp and rounded the corner to find a pile of juvenile Clones, all hanging off of Colt, and hugging Ti around the legs. 

Colt looked absolutely delighted about this development, and was staggering around dramatically with three four-year-old-sized clones on his good arm, and an additional two on each leg. 

He looked like a person. He looked like an older brother. Boba shook his head to make those thoughts go away. 

But he stared at Colt, surrounded by his family, and couldn’t keep the envy from rising again. 

...

Colt couldn’t help but notice Han and Boba standing at the edge of the mob of Littles and looking in. He leaned down, careful not to let anyone grab his bad arm, and whispered to the little boy next to him. 

“You know, those are my friends Han and Boba. Why don’t you say hi? Say hi like you would to a Jedi, mind, not like a brother,” he told him. He didn’t want to know what the teens would do if they were tackled by a dozen strange children. 

“But he is a brother,” the little Clone said, looking confused at Boba. 

Colt shook his head gently. 

“He doesn’t think he’s a brother, so we have to respect his space. That doesn’t mean we can’t love him; we just can’t hug him right now,” he told the Little. The kid nodded seriously, whispered to the rest of his squad, and directed them toward the teens. 

That one had the makings of a Cadet Captain. 

His buir put her hand on his good shoulder. 

“Medical,” she reminded him gently, in a tone that brooked no argument. 

“Yes, buir,” he sighed, walking along with her. They soon acquired a parade; Han and Boba followed him, the Littles followed them, and they picked up a few more stragglers on the way. 

Upchuck, the medic on duty, raised his eyebrow. 

“I haven’t had this many brothers visit me since our chips were out,” he mentioned casually. Colt noticed that the entire squad of twelve Littles was somehow hiding behind him at once. It was impressive. 

Colt sighed. 

“I’m here to get this checked out,” he gestured to the bad arm, and then dragged Han and Boba forward one at a time, with his good arm. 

“I’d like you two to get checked out, as well. Just to make sure you’re healthy,” he told them. 

Han gave him a challenging look. Everything was about challenge with this kid. 

“How do I know you won’t cut me up and sell my organs?” He said, with his jaw stuck out. Colt blinked at him. Of all the worries he’d had about Medics, that was not one of them. 

Boba looked at Han like he was an idiot. 

“They can grow organs here,” he said, “They have cloning equipment.”

It wasn’t quite true; the Clones hadn’t taken the equipment for the actual cloning process, just the equipment to keep their already cloned baby brothers alive. But Colt let them keep their idea, if it got them near the Medics without a fight. 

Upchuck took Colt into one bay of the infirmary, and fussed over his arm ill-naturedly until it was checked and wrapped to his exacting standards. Upchuck’s subordinates, Cathode and Spatula, had taken Boba and Han to get checked, so he waited outside the bays where they were. Buir had left, and taken the Littles with her, so Colt had a nice breather, some time to enjoy the quiet. 

The quiet was soon broken when Han and Boba saw one another. They came out about ten minutes later than he did, reading the treatment cards that the medics had issued them. 

“Ha! Look at this. ‘Eat three square meals a day, and healthy snacks between them. Desserts are encouraged after balanced servings of food,’” Han read, “It’s almost like they think I like being hungry. The sonic shower was nice, though.”

Boba shrugged. 

“They’re used to having enough food. A hungry soldier can’t fight, after all,” he replied. Colt forced his mind to skip all of the disturbing implications of that conversation, grabbed them both by the back of their necks, and took them to the nearest mess hall. 

Han’s eyes grew wide at the huge hall full of Clones eating. Colt steered them to the pile of rations that began the food line, and then took them past the baskets of fresh fruit and vegetables from the ‘ponics gardens. Once he was satisfied their plates were full, he beckoned them to an empty table. 

Han looked at him doubtfully, and then back to the rations. Colt shrugged and opened his own pack of rations. 

“It doesn’t taste the best, but it fills the hole. Keep the fruits and veggies for after; it’s easier to eat if you know you have something to get the texture out of your mouth,” he advised. 

Republic Standard Rations were created by the lowest bidder. Most of them consisted of a chalky dehydrated cube that rehydrated into various flavors and textures of slurry, a drink powder packet, and an additional bland protein/mineral bar in case soldiers needed more food. None of it tasted great, but it was sustenance. 

Boba ate quickly, like he was going into combat soon. Han, however, ate like the food was going to run away; unlikely, because Colt sincerely doubted that the rations had ever once been a living animal. 

“We won’t take it away, Han, we have our own. See? I’m not even close to done with mine, I don’t want you to choke,” he said gently, motioning to his mostly full plate. 

Boba nodded, and took care to eat slower. Han also slowed down slightly, but was still done well before Boba or Colt. 

“You needed to test me,” Boba reminded Colt, impatiently. Colt raised his eyebrow. 

“Alright then. Do you want to come with us, or do you want me to find you a place to wait, Han?” He asked the other boy. 

“I’ll come with you,” Han said quickly. Colt shrugged, and started to show them toward the Genet lab. 

...

Han couldn’t quite believe what he was seeing. Everyone knew the Jedi had gone away, someplace secret, and people knew that the Clones had vanished after the war was ended. Some thought they had gone together, because anyone who saw Jedi and Clones together during the war knew they really cared about each other. 

He still was half-convinced that he was knocked out in some alley back on Corellia, dreaming of a happily-ever-after that would never come. 

Even Boba looked at Colt and his brothers with envy disguised as disgust. You didn’t live long on the streets without learning to read people. 

Han didn’t know what this testing was about, but Boba was calm, and the older boy seemed to be more knowledgeable about what the seven Corellian Hels was going on, so he followed Colt and Boba across the grasslands toward an AA-9 freighter on the horizon. 

However, they were met partway by a small troop of Clones. They looked a couple years older than Boba, but with Clones, Han knew that meant nothing. 

“Jax,” Boba said warily. 

“Lucky,” the leader returned, “Why are you back?”

“I have a job,” Boba said, chin held high, shoulders back. 

“Will the job be sending us out of the airlock this time, instead of just marooning us in a lifepod?” Another young Clone snarked. 

“No, Whiplash. I’m hired to-“ Boba began to snarl, but Colt clamped a hand on his shoulder. 

“Boba’s a consultant. There’s some stuff the Kaminoans told his dad that we need to know, and he remembers some. He won’t be sending anyone out of any airlocks, I’m with him,” Colt reassured. 

Jax ran his eyes over Boba’s frame, sighed, and got a ration bar out of his pocket. He pressed it into Boba’s hand. 

“You’re under weight for your size,” he told Boba, “I have a friend who struggles with that.”

Boba seemed mostly too shocked to do anything, as the Cadets walked away. He stared at the bar in his hands like it might bite him if he looked away. 

“You a runaway from here?” Han asked. Why anyone would want to leave this place, with the pretty grasslands and plentiful food and kind people, he couldn’t tell, but he’d heard stranger. And he was starting to realize that Boba really looked like the clones. The resemblance was way past uncanny. 

“No!” Boba snapped at him, only calming down when Colt put his hand on his neck. And what was with Colt? He just... touched them, without wanted to hurt them, without wanting anything for himself. He’d ruffled Han’s hair earlier, like Han’d seen families do. And he put his hand on your shoulder, and you couldn’t help but feel safe. 

Han may admit, under duress, that he’d started arguments with Boba just to feel Colt’s hand on his neck. It was the closest thing he’d had to a hug in years. 

“No, Boba’s the son of the man we were cloned from,” Colt said. Han nodded. That made sense. It had to suck, though, running around on a planet where everyone looked like your dad. 

They reached the freighter, and wandered through the maze of halls headed toward one of the upper levels. Some of them had little colorful handprints on the walls, and occasionally Han heard children’s voices, though he never saw the kids. Colt was keeping a pretty firm hold on both him and Boba, to make sure they didn’t wander off, he guessed. 

An excitable Weequay met them at a door marked GENET in large letters. 

“Commander Colt! You were successful!” She all but bounced up and down joyfully, and stuck her hand out to shake. Boba and Han just stared at her. 

“Sorry,” Colt smiled tiredly, “It’s been a long day.”

“I have those sometimes,” the Weequay said genially, “I understand.”

Colt shepherded them both to a small room, with an examination table in the corner. It looked like a room from the charity clinic on Corellia. 

Boba out his arm forward, seemingly uncaring. The Weequay gently swabbed his arm, the drew some blood and bacta bandaged over the spot. 

“I’ll have results within the day!” The Weequay said brightly, leaving them in the room. 

It took more effort than usual to get up, and Han could feel his eyelids drooping. Boba didn’t look too much better. Colt gave them a considering look, then opened a comm lime on his bracer. 

“Buir, we’re going back to the _Minstrel of the Dawn_ , we need sleep,” he said. The pretty Jedi lady nodded at him. 

“The Officer’s Lounge is available, you can leave Han and Boba there,” she said. 

“Good idea,” Colt sighed, and then started walking. 

Han didn’t remember much of the trip to the _Minstrel of the Dawn_ , which turned out to be one of the massive grounded Venators that littered the planet’s surface, the one they had gone to before for their check-up. He remembered Boba almost faceplanting over a rock, that was funny. He remembered the massive hangar door they entered through. Colt directed them through a maze of halls to a small, cozy room with several old couches. He gently aimed Han at one and Boba at another. 

The last thing Han remembered was how soft and comfortable the couches were. 

...

Shaak looked in the door of the _Minstrel’s_ Forward Officer’s Lounge, and couldn’t contain a smile. There were two teenage boys out like a light on two of the the couches, and one Clone Commander sprawled out on a beanbag chair breathing deeply. One of the boys, she wasn’t entirely sure which, was snoring like a Wookiee. 

She stepped quietly in, and gently maneuvered her son’s bad arm to make sure he wasn’t hurting it in his sleep. She stroked his hair, again, tempted to lay down next to him to sleep a while, but she heard a whine. 

She looked up, and saw Boba shift in his sleep. He let out a small whine again. 

“Boba,” she murmured. The boy didn’t wake, so she used the Force to gently tap him with a cushion. It was dangerous to wake a fighter up in the middle of a nightmare. 

She was proven right when Boba jerked awake and started to throttle the pillow immediately. 

“Boba, the pillow is not trying to attack you,” she murmured, careful to keep the amusement out of her voice. Boba didn’t need to feel he was being laughed at on top of everything else. 

Boba turned to her with slightly bleary eyes, considered her words, and nodded. He stopped attempting to murder the pillow. 

“What was that for?” He asked, once he connected the pillow and her outstretched hand. 

“You were having a nightmare, Boba, I wanted to try to help you wake up,” she said. 

“Thanks, I guess,” Boba said, and did not try to go back to sleep. 

She sighed, and sat down across from him on the floor. 

“Do you wish to talk about it?” She asked neutrally. 

“What do you care?” He shot back, defensive. If humans had hackles, his would be raised. 

“I am responsible for you, momentarily, as the one who has invited you as a guest into our community. I would like your stay to be pleasant,” Shaak replied. No need for him to know that he reminded her of some of her younger sons, especially when he smiled. 

“I watched my dad die. It sticks with a guy,” Boba muttered. 

Shaak blinked. She hadn’t known Boba was on Geonosis that day, much less that he had watched Jango die. The Jedi had certainly failed this boy. 

“I wish we had never fought,” she returned, “I was friends with Jedi Master Coleman, and several other casualties of Geonosis. And Colt had brothers who were lost there.”

“Were you there?” Boba asked bluntly. 

“Yes, I was,” Shaak murmured, “But I wish you weren’t, you were much too young.”

“I’m not too young!” Boba all but screeched, though quietly. Shaak was still for a moment, but neither Colt nor Han stirred. 

“Boba, you were nine,” Shaak said gently, “Even your father’s people do not let their children go to battle until they are thirteen.”

“My father has no people. They cast him out. I have no people,” Boba hissed. 

“Your father had you, and the Clones. The Clones would accept you if you asked,” Shaak gently suggested. Colt’s breath hitched. She had suspected he was awake. 

“I’m not so pathetic as to accept the facsimile of affection that a droid offers,” Boba snarled. Colt’s breath hitched again. 

“They’re not droids!” Shaak allowed her irritation to show in her voice, “They’re my sons!”

“Then you have been duped. They’re just bodies with computers for brains,” Boba muttered. 

Shaak sighed deeply, let go of her anger, and reached into her robes to pull out a pendant. She did not thrust it into Boba’s face, but it was close. 

“This is Colt’s control chip. He took it out after the failed takeover of the GAR by the former Chancellor, and he kept it to reassure himself that he couldn’t be forced to do anything. He gave it to me, so I could be reassured of the same,” she said, “There is no other metal in his head, it was confirmed by Jedi Healer scans. Does he seem brainless to you?”

Boba looked at the chip with eyes wide. 

“But he can’t be a person,” he murmured so low that Shaak almost didn’t hear him. 

“Why not?” She asked, still somewhat combatively. 

“He can’t be. If he was a person, then my dad...” Boba trailed off, and made that abortive movement to wrap his ams around himself again. 

Shaak blinked. Of course Boba didn’t want to believe his dad was capable of the way he treated Clones. Colt sighed, just out of sync with his normal breathing, enough for her to hear. 

She sighed, and held out her hand. Boba took it. 

“Well, your dad might have believed the Kaminoans,” she offered. It almost never was fruitful to speculate on the motivations of the dead, but if it preserved a boy’s image of his father, well, a little prevarication may be worth it. 

It was definitely worth the way Boba looked at her, like she no longer was his mortal enemy. 

“You think so?” He said, probingly. 

“Did he ever lie to you?” It was probably best to return question with question. 

“No,” Boba said wonderingly, “He never did.”

Shaak gave his hand a squeeze. 

“Even if the testing proves a failure, I would like to extend an invitation to stay on Dantooine, at least for a while. We have room for one more,” she said gently. 

“I’ll... think about it,” Boba allowed. It was probably the best she could ask for, right now. 

...

Colt had woken up when his Buir stroked his hair, but pretended he was still asleep. It was nice, just to relax. He would get up in a moment, and curl next to his Buir, but for now, he needed to be reminded he was a person and his Buir loved him. 

He still needed reminding, sometimes. Buir had assured him that eventually, that need would go away. And while he still had it, she would be happy to spend some time with him to remind him. 

He heard Boba whimper, though, and almost got up, but his Buir beat him to it. It was what had earned her his loyalty and love, after all; she loved his little brothers, and Boba, whether the kid liked it or not, was his little brother. 

He felt a little guilty for listening to their conversation, but Boba probably couldn’t take two adults at once, and he was hostile toward Colt most of the time anyway. 

But he couldn’t quite regulate his breathing the way he knew he should. There was no harm in letting his Buir know he was awake, he figured. And hearing Boba so conflicted, caught between his love for Jango and his growing realization the Clones were people, well, he was glad Buir was able to help him reconcile the two. 

Cody had gone through this, he knew. Cody, out of all the CCs, had probably been closest to Jango. Jango had named the man, for goodness’ sake. Kote, glory, for his ferocious bravery in training and later on the battlefield. Colt still remembered the way Jango had ruffled Cody’s hair, and the way Cody smiled in private later, even if he had kept himself expressionless in front of Jango. 

And Colt knew Cody still kept that name as a secret treasure, even if he had cast it off after Jango betrayed them. 

He should bring Boba to Cody; maybe they could help each other. Jango Fett’s son, and Jango Fett’s best protege, who both missed the man in their own ways. 

Colt loved that his Buir tried to make Boba welcome on Dantooine. Colt knew it would be difficult to let Boba leave; Colt was nothing if not overprotective and loving of all his little brothers. But he had to let Boba go someday, though he hoped the day was far away. 

He made a small show of stirring awake, yawning, stretching, rubbing his eyes. Boba looked at him suspiciously, but didn’t seem to realize how long he’d been awake. And his face wasn’t nearly so pinched, and there wasn’t hate in his eyes anymore, just unfamiliarity. 

Colt stifled the urge to hug him. He didn’t want to crowd the kid. 

“What say you we head back to the mess hall and see what kind of rations are there right now?” He said jovially, just loud enough to startle Han awake. As he suspected, the kid perked right up. 

“Food!” He exclaimed, pumping his fist. 

Han was about the size he and his brothers were, when they hit their growth spurt for the first time. There hadn’t been enough food in the galaxy to get them really full, though their Alpha had tried to give them some of his own food to supplement theirs. 

Colt took a moment to thank the stars that Alpha-47 had finally moved into a ship; he’d been worried about him, but he and his brothers had finally gotten through to the man, and he was living with one of Colt’s squadmates at the moment. 

He also thanked the stars that there was more than enough food, and growing Cadets could have double portions every day if they needed to. 

They walked past 99 leading a squad of Littles out of the mess, and of course Colt had to stop and say hello and give hugs (an equal number of hugs for each Little, and 99, he didn’t want to create the appearance of favoritism). It wasn’t until he was on his second hug for the last little that he noticed Boba and Han, looking very uneasy, talking to one of the more adventurous boys who had wandered to the edge of the group. Colt decided to listen in, so he began round three of hugs. The sacrifices he made for his brothers!

“I’m Boba, that’s Han,” Boba was telling the Little. 

“I’m Ress, I’m two! How old are you?” The Little grinned up at the two older boys. 

“I’m thirteen,” Han said, nervous but trying hard. 

“I’m fourteen,” said Boba, somewhat absently. 

Ress blinked up at him, and then patted his knee gently. 

“It’s okay if you didn’t grow big like your squad mates, 99 had trouble too, but we love him very much!” The kid said endearingly. 

Boba blinked down at the kid. So did Han. 

“Are you sure you’re fourteen though? You look like you’re seven,” Ress continued somewhat skeptically. 

“No, I... was part of an experimental batch, I age like a natborn,” Boba was obviously making something up on the spot, but it seemed plausible enough to Ress. The Little hugged his legs, then hugged Han’s legs, and wandered back to his group. 

Colt suppressed a smile, gave Ress his third hug, and waved the group off to their destination, and then started leading the two boys into the dining hall. They fell into step behind him, and it was getting harder and harder to tell himself that they weren’t meant to be there. 

...

Boba didn’t really know what to think. The Jedi had been nice, kind even, and after she made him confront his doubts about the Clone’s inhumanity, she’d held his hand, like his Dad used to. 

And- Colt. There was no way to describe Colt. He... looked after Boba, and treated him a lot like one of his younger brothers, from what Boba had seen. Just with less hugs. He was a person, there was no question anymore. No droid could be so enthusiastic about hugging smaller models of itself. 

And the little boy, Ress. He remembered the kids that age at Kamino, marching past in double rows, solid and regimented and never smiling. He’d put it down to them being droids. Now he knew they were scared. 

No one should ever make a little kid that scared. 

He was brought out of his reverie by the sound of rations hitting the tray in his hands. 

“Hope you like green sludge with hint of brown goop!” Colt told him cheerfully. 

Boba blinked down at the ration, which did indeed resemble nothing so much as a green sludge with brown goo drizzled on top. 

Well, it was food, and he’d been too hungry before to turn food down now. Han sat beside him, with a similar tray containing orange and red goop, and Colt made to sit across from them but was called away by a scuffle at the other end of the mess. 

“Commander’s duties are never over!” He smiled ruefully at them. 

“There’s something more, that you’re not saying,” Han murmured after a while, watching Colt trick all parties in the dispute into hugging each other’s. 

“Everything I’ve said is true,” Boba shot back. 

“You said you were the original’s son, and then you said you were an experimental clone. Make up your mind, man,” Han raised his eyebrow. Boba fought the urge to punch Han in the face. 

“I’m Dad’s son,” he hissed, “He wanted me so much he did the whole job to get me, he told me so.”

Han blinked, processed, and nodded slowly. 

“So your dad, he wanted a kid, so he paid for one from the cloners?” He said, obviously testing the waters. 

“Yeah, I’m the only unmodified one. The rest grow faster, are more loyal, some other stuff,” Boba projected nonchalance. It was getting easier, but he couldn’t shake the feeling Colt and Ti could see through it, so he needed practice. 

“It must be nice, being wanted like that,” Han said thoughtfully. 

Boba could only nod. It had been. He missed it desperately. 

“That’s why they came and got me,” he confessed, “They need my genes to try and fix the fast growth in the Clones.”

“Oh, that was what the clinic visit was about. I just figured they were more worried about you than me,” Han replied. 

“Colt doesn’t work that way,” Boba shook his head. He had the feeling that Colt really truly loved every one of his brothers, including him and probably Han. The other boy was staring fixedly into his goop, steeling himself for something. 

“When does the job end?” He asked. 

“The deal was I stay here and provide genetic material until all the Clones are corrected. Probably less than a year,” Boba told him. 

Boba realized he should probably nail down the timeframe for this job, since he had already accepted it. Colt sat down across from them, and resolutely began eating his sludge. 

Han sighed, and clutched his eating utensils. 

“When the job is done, could I hitch a ride with you? You’re ship is better than a random freighter,” he muttered. 

Boba blinked at him. So did Colt. 

“Why would you need a ride?” Asked Colt confusedly, “It’s not like we’re going to toss you off the planet when Boba’s done.”

Han was the one to blink this time. 

“You’re not?” he asked, surprised. 

Colt looked like someone had sucker-punched him in the gut. The softy definitely considered Han one of his little brothers. 

“No, we aren’t going to kick you out!” Colt yelped. He reached across the table and took Han’s hand in his, and reached with his other hand to Boba. After a moment of thought, Boba accepted it. 

“You both are welcome to stay here, on Dantooine, on the _Minstrel_ if you want, somewhere else safe if you want that, for as long as you want,” Colt said firmly, “And if anyone tries to tell you different, send them to me.”

Han’s eyes were wide, and suspiciously shimmery. Boba decided not to comment on it; he didn’t want to start a fight right now, and he had a feeling his eyes were slightly shimmery too. 

They ate the rest of the meal quickly and silently, and Colt checked the chrono on his comm. 

“We still have another three hours before the test results come back,” he murmured, and put his chin on his hand. He smiled, suddenly. 

“I have a place for us to go, on the Starbird,” he said conspiratorially, and beckoned them to follow him. 

They wandered through the grasslands, and Boba couldn’t help but notice the small rustles of grass that didn’t quite move with the wind. He looked at Colt questioningly, only to find the man making handsigns at the small clumps. 

“Stealth exercises,” he said to their questioning looks, “You don’t get better if you aren’t told when you’re spotted.”

A small dark-haired head poked up from the grass and grinned at them. Boba couldn’t help but smile back. 

They reached the Starbird, and it must have been a true feat of piloting to land a space freighter here, with no docking facility. Colt led them through the twisting maze of corridors again, only to come out in- a library! The biggest Boba had ever seen!

It had been so long since Boba had been able to read a book for fun, he’d been stuck with manuals, and blueprints, and briefings. Things he had to read for work, things he forced himself to get through. He had no time for, and no means to buy, books about history or art or science that didn’t apply to weapons or explosives. The Jedi might even have fiction, he thought. 

He looked wonderingly at the shelves and shelves of holobooks that stretched to the other end of the enormous room. 

Colt nudged his back, gently. 

“Go on, pick something out,” he said encouragingly. Boba wandered to the nearest stack. Based on the titles on the spines of the holobooks, he’d landed somewhere in the history of Ryloth...

...

Han watched Boba wander away into the rows of glowing holobooks with something like awe on his face, and looked up to Colt with a question in his eyes. 

Colt smiled at him. 

“Boba always loved to read. We’d see him walk past at Kamino, holding a stack of holobooks taller than he was, walking between his quarters and the library,” he reminisced. 

Han was happy Boba was in a good mood, but he wasn’t really one for books. He got ready to settle against a holoterminal and count the ceiling tiles, until Colt put his hand on Han’s shoulder. 

Han even caught himself leaning in. Pretty soon, he would be outright asking the man for a hug at this rate. The thought didn’t bother him near as much as it should. 

“I never was one for books either,” Colt murmured quietly, mindful of the glance the terrifying sharp lady behind the reception desk gave him, “But there’s something here I think you’d like.”

They wandered a short while through the stacks, then came to the wall, with a door in it. Colt opened the door; no one locked anything here, apparently. 

Inside, the room was dark. Colt flicked on the lights, to reveal a room with a fairly standard holoprojector in the center, and some comfortable-looking cushions on the floor. Han looked at Colt quizzically, only for Colt to fiddle with the projector, and for a title card to spring to life. 

“They only have documentaries and ‘films of cultural importance’ on here,” Colt shrugged, “But I talked to some of my brothers’ Padawan-Commanders, and some are actually decent. This one’s about Socorro.”

It was a fairly engaging documentary, focusing mostly on the colonization of Socorro and the repercussions to Corellia as a whole. It also had historical reenactions of high points in the planet’s history, pirates and smugglers facing off against the only slightly more legitimate forces of the planetary government. Han was enthralled. 

About halfway through, he noticed Boba slip in, hands full of holobooks. The stack wasn’t quite taller than he was, but it was close. He settled into the cushions beside Colt and Han, and started to read the books next to them. 

It wasn’t until a particularly riveting scene detailing the escape of the daughter of a planetary governor from a group of pirates holding her hostage that Han noticed he was leaning against Colt. He stiffened. Colt may not want a street urchin leaned against him. 

Colt squashed his fears by gently and slowly bringing his arm to rest on Han’s shoulders. 

“Is this all right?” Colt whispered to him, “I don’t want to crowd you.”

“It’s nice,” Han whispered back, “But why?” Why do you care, why are you hugging me, why do I deserve to be anywhere near this planet that I’m not quite convinced isn’t Paradise. 

“You’re my little brother,” Colt shrugged. 

“I’m not,” Han shot back, “I look nothing like you.”

“Doesn’t matter. I’ve adopted you,” Colt returned, ruffling his hair. 

“You can’t adopt me that easy!” Han exclaimed. 

“What, do you not want me to?” Colt backed off. Han decided he didn’t like it when Colt removed his arm from his shoulders, and held it down with his hands. 

“No, it just can’t be that easy,” Han tried to explain. It can’t be that easy to have a family, it can’t be that easy to find a home. It can’t be that easy for someone to love me. 

“The Mandalorians have a very short adoption ritual. All you have to do is say the right words, and have the recipient of the adoption agree. Do you agree?” Colt said gently. 

Han nodded, but couldn’t bring himself to say anything. 

“Ni kyr'tayl gai sa'vod (7), Han. I know your name as my brother, and I will care for you as my brother,” Colt promised. 

If Han’s eyes were wet, it was just because the holo-documentary was sad. He settled in closer to Colt, and Colt put both arms around him, for a moment. 

Boba was right. It was really nice being wanted. 

He almost missed Boba’s eyes flicker up from the holobook, rest on him and Colt for a second, and then settle resolutely back on the holobook again. 

He felt Colt shift next to him. Evidently Colt had seen it too. 

“You’re welcome to come over, if you’d like, Boba,” Colt said welcomingly. 

“I’d hate to disturb you,” Boba replied, doing his best to seem absent. 

“Boba,” Colt said like it was incredibly obvious, “You’re also my brother.”

Boba looked up sharply. 

“Come over here,” Colt beckoned. Boba stared at him with a mix of hope and terror. 

“I don’t bite,” Han tried to joke. Boba seemed lonely, and Colt was able able to somehow love a thousand brothers at once, as well as him. He figured that Colt could love one more. 

Boba started to move, gently, toward them. Colt held up his arm, on his other side, and Boba gingerly settled under it, and still seemed somewhat surprised when Colt draped his arm over him. 

“You are my brothers,” Colt said, “My family is your family.”

Stupid sad holodocumentary. 

Colt’s wrist comm chirped. He sighed, and tapped it. 

“And a large and needy family it is,” he grinned ruefully. 

Boba and Han smirked. Healer Omida popped up on the comm. 

“It works! Colt, it works!” She shrieked. 

Han blinked at her. He’d almost forgotten the reason the Jedi had gone to Corellia in the first place. 

Colt, somehow, hugged them both even tighter. 

“It works! Thank the force, it works!” He breathed. 

He ruffled both Han and Boba’s hair at once. 

“You two won’t be getting rid of me and all our brothers for a long, long time!” He smiled. 

Han couldn’t help but smile back. He knew he wouldn’t wake up from this; it was better than any dream. 

He had a family. 

**Author's Note:**

> 1\. This is me pulling science out of my hat. Protein turnover is the speed proteins are made and destroyed in cells. The faster the speed is, in theory, the faster cells develop, and the faster organisms grow. Or, well, that’s how it worked in this experiment on growing motor nerves artificially: https://www.sciencedaily.com/releases/2020/09/200917181310.htm. I’m stretching it because I am not a biochemist, and I don’t have a week to research this for you. Sorry.  
> 2\. A nickname for Cystic Fibrosis, an unfortunately common genetic disease.  
> 3\. Mutations occur naturally and often, in the body, most of them benign and unnoticeable. However, the Kaminoans were perfectionists, and went for the Alpha with the least mutations.  
> 4\. Mandalorian: smart-*ss  
> 5\. Mandalorian: my child  
> 6\. The 100 original instructors for the the Clones, handpicked by Jango. Not very nice people.  
> 7\. Mandalorian: I know your name as my brother. Modified from the parent-child adoption vow.


End file.
